Starcrossed Lovers
by ChazzR
Summary: The United States, as well as the other countries, still exist. But the Hunger Games is used to deter a third world war from breaking out. Katniss Everdeen, a huntress from suburban Georgia, and Cato Ashworth, a brutal boy from Urban California, are chosen to represent the United States in the 74th annual Games. Will love blossom when only one tribute can live? Cato/Katniss
1. Chapter 1

**I'm a huge Catoniss shipper so i had to write a story about them eventually. This story is an AU in which the United States still exists, as well as the other countries, but the Hunger Games is used to deter war between the major power countries. The story will not completely follow the arena in THG but the aspects of it will be similar.**

**Sorry but Cato is not in this chapter. He will be in the next one though, this is the introduction chapter with Katniss at the Reaping.**

I** do not own the Hunger Games, all rights go to Suzanne Collins.**

Chapter 1

I grasp onto the prickled branch for dear life as the breathtaking pull of gravity yanks me towards the forest floor, where I would surely meet my doom. Internally, I scold myself for lack of attention. A mistake like this isn't acceptable when wild dogs are included in the equation, but I don't normally make such errors. Hunting is a daily thing for me, and comes as second nature, but today of all days my nerves are on edge. Because today is the day of the Reaping.

I straddle the trunk of the tree to avoid plummeting towards the snarling wild dogs on the forest floor that envision me as their next appetizer. My bow and sheath of arrows are out of reach, leaving me utterly defenseless against the predators below, as well as anybody who could come across me in these woods. If I were to be caught in this position by a peacekeeper, I'd get a bullet through my head. My father once told me that hunting wasn't always illegal in the backwoods of Georgia, before the dark days that is. That was the same year he got blown to bits in a mine explosion. The only reason I risk venturing out here to poach is to put food on my table for my little sister, Primrose.

As I tighten my grip on the rough bark, I hear a yelp from below and thud of a body. I turn to see one of the three wild dogs lying on the ground with an arrow in its neck, dead. Only one other person I know of could make a shot like that. Gale. Gale is my friend, my only friend. We understand each other, having both lost our fathers in the same incident. Other than Prim, he's the only person who can put a smile on my face.

Two more arrows rip through the underbrush and stick the remaining two dogs in the necks. Both go down in a heap. Moments later, a tall and muscular boy emerges from the brush and grins as he sizes up his kills. If you didn't know us, you'd think that Gale and I were related, with our identical black hair and olive skin. If people at school aren't calling us cousins, they're starting rumors that we're dating. Gross. I've never thought of Gale in a romantic way, no matter how attractive he may be.

But we're also different in a big way. Gale has lived here in suburban Georgia his entire life. He has the country boy charm to him that all the girls swoon over, whereas the northerners would label him as a hick. I'm not originally from here. My sister and I were born in Ann Arbor, Michigan. We moved here when my dad got offered a job in the mining of the Appalachian Mountains. And that proved to be the biggest mistake of our lives.

"What are you doing out here, Katniss?" Gale asks urgently. The usage of my real name instead of his pet name "catnip" indicates that he's not a happy camper.

"Hunting, obviously. I want to drop by Greasy Sae's before the Reaping," I tell Gale. Normally I'm not so short with him, but today isn't a day of patience for anyone.

"Not on Reaping day! Katniss the place is swarmed with peacekeepers, you can't be too careful today. This year is different." Gale tells me as I crawl down the tree, bow and sheath in hand. We begin walking back towards town through the woods.

He's right of course, this year is different. Because this year somebody that we know, or even I, could be chosen to represent the United States in the 74th annual Hunger Games. Georgia hasn't been chosen in years, even before I was eligible for the Reaping at the age of twelve. Now I'm sixteen and Prim is twelve. Both of us face the Reaping with equal chances of being chosen.

It was seventy four years ago that the Hunger Games were initiated. The world had faced two world wars that extremely dented the population and caused havoc between countries. When we were on the verge of a third world war, a new power arose. The Confederation of World Powers was a league of men and women from each country who gathered in an assembly to discuss possible motions to deter further warfare from destroying civilization. The Hunger Games was their answer. It was devised as a system of involving each major country in a competition, sort of like a sport, in which they'd face off and the winning country would receive glory for their year of victory. That's what it is to them.

To us, the Hunger Games is a punishment for bringing war to the world. It's also a way for the Confederation to display their power over the countries. Because the rulers of the major powers didn't exactly agree to it willingly. Anyone who rejected the Hunger Games was blown to bits by the nuclear weapons the Confederation possesses. For example, I heard that a long time ago there was a country to the west of Spain called Portugal. I wouldn't go looking for it though. All there is to the west of Spain is rubble and ash and water.

The Hunger Games is a televised event in which two children from each major power country, one boy and one girl, between the ages of twelve and eighteen are dispatched into an outdoor arena where they fight to the death over a period of two to three weeks until one victor remains. The sickest part is how the Confederation enforces the viewing of the Games and we're forced to treat it like some holiday. 'Happy Hunger Games' they'll say to us. As if there is anything to be happy about.

I think about Prim. Her face after the Preliminary Reaping was devastating, and the thought of her being chosen is enough to break me. She wouldn't stand a chance in the Games, no decent person ever wins. And this year, the state of Georgia was chosen to bear the female tribute for the Games. It's a big relief for the boys though. The male tribute this year will come from California. So Gale has nothing to worry about, except for the prospect of me being chosen.

To make things worse, at the secondary Reaping, a county in the state is chosen to narrow down the choosing. And for the first time in history, our county was chosen. And today is the third and final Reaping in which the official tribute will be chosen. But our county is rather large, so there will be many names to choose from. Prim won't be chosen, it's her first year, she won't.

Gale and I part silently when we reach the town in our part of the district known as the Seam. Our county is one of the richest in the state, but to the landowners' dismay, the Seam exists in the southern area of the county, acting as an eye sore for all of the rich entrepreneurs in the north. Lake Lanier is located in the direct middle of the county, separating the Seam from the richer population. We come across them time from time, and let's just say they aren't the nicest people around. After all, we're just Seam rats to them.

I stalk back to my home, which rests on the border of the Seam, nearest the lake where my father first taught me to swim when we moved here. I was seven, Prim was three. Even now, the lake haunts me. I refused to go back there for years, but when I was fourteen Gale managed to coerce me into spending a day at the lake with him. Long story short, it was a bad idea. I fell out of a ski boat Gale borrowed from a friend, and if it wasn't for a blonde-haired boy from the north who happened to be passing at the moment, I would have drowned. I never got the blond boy's name. I never even thanked him for saving my life, because he's from the north and he probably regrets saving a Seam rat like me.

Our house was one of the nicer ones in the Seam, my father built it with the help of his comrades. But after he died, the home seemed to decay with his memory, as a reminder of our loss. My mother went into an extreme state of depression after his death, and she hasn't picked up a mop or broom since. You can imagine how filthy our house is now, what with me hunting for food all day since my incompetent mother can't supply for her own daughters.

I'm greeted at the door by Prim, whose smiling widely at me but the happiness doesn't reach her eyes. I can see in those blue orbs how truly scared she is for the Reaping today. All I want to do is hug her tightly and tell her everything will be alright. But can I really tell her that right before the Reaping? Can I really tell her that everything will be alright when she could be chosen to be involved in a fight to the death against kids older and bigger than her?

I notice the hem of her shirt sticking out the back of her satin skirt. Of course, Reaping clothes. I almost forgot we have to dress up to be 'camera ready.' Prim's blonde hair, the same as my mothers', is braided in two, unlike my black hair braided in one long braid down my back. We look nothing alike, I resemble my father, while Prim is the epitome of my mother if she wasn't so battered and wrinkled from years of worry and depression.

"You look beautiful, Prim." I say with the best smile I can come up with. I have to stay strong, for her. "But tuck that tail in, little duck."

"Quack!" Prim says and giggles. I can't help but laugh with her. But my happiness is fleeting when I remember her innocence and the events to come today. The Reaping isn't like the boogey man. I can't hold her tight and tell her it's just a dream because that'd be a lie.

"I left something for you to wear on your bed," My mother tells me. I nod, but say nothing else. I'm not like Prim in that way. She sees progress in my mother and is willing to welcome her back into her life, despite the years of distance when my mother was a lifeless shell of herself. Let's just say I'm not the most forgiving person around.

I slowly walk up the stairs to my bedroom, trying not to snap the wooden stairs that have rotted from lack of maintenance over the years. On my bed lies a blue dress made of cotton, obviously an outfit of my mother's that she owned when she was a merchant's daughter in Michigan, before she married my dad. They must've been in love, for her to leave the life she had for this. I try to stop myself from feeling anything about this, because despite my anger towards her, my mother never allows anyone to wear her old clothing. Not even Prim.

I shower quickly in ice cold water. Warm water isn't a privilege we receive in the Seam. I re-braid my hair in the signature single strand down my back, the way my mother taught me before she zoned out on us.

The Reaping begins in one hour at the capital of the state, which is Atlanta in our case. It's a forty five minute commute and since it's forbidden to be tardy or absent, Prim and I need to leave now to be safe. We have to take the Marta to get there. It's a train that runs from our county, through the capital, and into the southern counties. Luckily, the train station is only a ten minute walk from our home. The bad part is that the train is also utilized by the northern county people who need to go into town. Again, they're not very fond of us Seam people, and that counts against me because my gray eyes, black hair, and olive skin clearly label me as a Seam girl. Prim, however, is constantly mistaken as a merchant's daughter.

When we arrive at the station, Prim and I are given tickets to board the train. Normally it'd cost money that Seam kids don't have, but on Reaping day, kids twelve through eighteen are given free passes. How considerate of them… My mother is carpooling with Hazelle, Gale's mom, and Gale is driving them since his mother has to control the other siblings in the back seat and he doesn't technically have to go because he's a boy. I know that he's only attending to be there for me.

Prim and I claim seats right by the doors, away from the rowdy northern girls who are goofing off in the back, even though one of them could be dying in the Hunger Games within the week. I hold Prim tight; to the point where somebody would have to literally pry her out of my arms. It's not that the Marta isn't safe, but I just don't trust the merchant kids and the vulgar things they say about girls. Especially girls from the Seam. Merchant boys are convinced that Seam girls are all 'sluts', and they attempt to take advantage of the weaker ones. That's probably why all of the merchant girls think we're rats.

A blond girl sits beside Prim and I, right by the door instead of with the other merchants. I'm about to scowl at her before recognizing that it's Madge, the police chief's daughter. We've talked a few times; she had a fling with Gale one summer at the lake. She used to hang out with us in the woods before her father found out and had a cow. I can easily assume that there are headshots of Gale and me in the police station with the caption 'POACHERS' under them.

"Hello, Katniss," Madge says with a smile. "You look pretty today."

"Thanks Madge, you too. I like your dress." I'm not a girly girl, so I stick to a stationary compliment.

"Thank you, I got it especially for today." She says, her smile fading. "I want to look nice in case I get chosen and have a bunch of cameras on me."

Her attempt at a joke comes out as a nervous stutter. And I feel Prim stiffen up against me. Looks as if everyone is nervous for the Reaping. Our conversation ends at that. What else is there to say?

The train stops in Atlanta, and when the doors slide open, we flood out the doors like a herd of sheep. The Reaping starts in a few minutes, and from what've I've seen on television, being late isn't something that'll put the odds in your favor. And right now, Peacekeepers are searching the county, assuring that every child is in attendance for the Reaping.

The streets of the city, that are normally packed with commuters and occupants, are empty save for the children of our county running with their parents to town hall where the Reaping takes place. People from other counties and other states are all seated in front of their T.V sets, waiting to see which poor kids from our county will be chosen for the Hunger Games. And all over the world, countries will be tuning in to see which children from our county will represent the United States in the 74th annual Hunger Games, and possibly kill their children.

We're two of the last people to reach the square in front of town hall, that's decked out in flamboyant posters advertising this year's Games. Camera men are perched on building tops and scattered amongst the crowd, desperate to get the best shot possible of the chosen tribute. If the boy or girl cry, throw a fit, or try to make a run for it, you can bet that every minute of it will be caught on film. A stage is set up in front of the crowd of children where three seats, a podium and two enormous glass balls sit. The Mayor and a bubbly woman with pink hair and pale white face sit in the chairs, the third one is vacant. Beside them, the two glass balls hold the names of every child in our county, one for boys and one for girls, on slips of paper to be drawn.

Effie Trinket is the pink-haired woman, also known as the United State's escort. When I say escort I mean that in two ways. The way they get this job is by 'being with' a higher power in the Confederation. I believe Effie has a thing with Seneca Crane, the head Gamemaker for the past few years. But it's not like that will give our tributes any advantage. Effie's enthusiasm for the Hunger Games shows that she's devoted to the cruelty that is the Games. She'd never cheat for one of us. We're 'below' her.

The vacant seat is supposed to be occupied by a past victor from the United States, and let me tell you, there haven't been many. Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the fiftieth annual Hunger Games, is a notorious drunk and his inebriation is the reason he's the only past victor they've been able to convince to come back to mentor the new tributes. But he never makes an appearance at the Reapings, in fact, he makes as few appearances as possible. Or maybe the U.S president is trying to save our country some dignity by keeping him off screen as much as possible.

After signing in, Prim and I are separated, she with the twelve year old girls and me with the sixteen year olds. I give her hand a reassuring squeeze before we part, knowing that this upcoming hour will be one of the worst of her life. From the sixteen year old bullpin I can't see Prim up in the front with the other girls her age. All of them must be breaking down about now, since it's their first year eligible for the Games. Then again, we should all be on edge right now, our county has never been put in this position before.

The Mayor stands and reads off the usual spiel, recounting the terrible wars that resulted from humanity's lack of discipline and how the Hunger Games were created to put all of the countries in place. He goes on about how much of an 'honor' it is to be tributes in the Hunger Games, and he even has the nerve to give us a pep talk on how the chosen tributes should strive to win this to bring honor to our country. As if killing a bunch of kids is an honorable thing to do. We can all see through his act of course. Everything he says is to please the Confederation, who is probably watching us on TV right now, waiting to bomb the country if the President slips up.

Effie Trinket steps up to the podium, decked out in her frilly pink dress and abnormally tall heels, and the time has come for two of us to be dragged away from our families to face certain death. The crowd goes so silent you could hear a pin drop.

"Happy Hunger Games!" She trills in an annoying accent, stressing the 's' in Games.

"And-" She breathes in for suspense. How stupid, we all know what's coming. We all mutter "may the odds be ever in your favor" a moment before she finally does.

She rants on about her undeniable love for the Games and her excitement for new tributes to represent the United States in the Games, even though we never win. And then she's approaching the bowl of names, one of which has 'Katniss Everdeen' scribbled on it.

She reads out the girl's name and I'm relieved it's not me. Until the name registers into my mind.

"Primrose Everdeen."

Impossible. It's not possible. There must've been thousands of slips in that bowl, what are the chances of Prim being chosen? This cannot be happening; this is some sort of sick joke. They couldn't possibly let an innocent twelve year old fight with all of these older children. But then I see her, my sweet little Primrose, walking down the aisle towards the stage and I completely snap.

My legs are taking me to the stage without hesitation, and the crowd parts to allow me through. I'm yelling Prim's name and she finally stops to turn around and look at me. She's not crying, but the fear in her eyes could be seen from a mile away. Two Peacekeepers step between me and my sister and I panic. I shove and push them with all my strength, but they're two grown men and I'm a petit girl. But my size comes in handy and I manage to squeeze through the gap between. In one swift movement I push Prim behind me, acting as a barrier between my lovely sister and the sadistic Games that threaten to extinguish her.

"I volunteer!" I yell in a voice that doesn't belong to me. "I volunteer as tribute!"

If the square was quiet before, it pales in comparison to how it is now. Everyone is frozen, gawking at me like I just revealed myself as an alien. Even the camera men's jaws are on the floor. Nobody volunteers for the Hunger Games in the United States. Ever. In some countries, kids will train for the Games so they can bring honor and riches to their country, but never here.

The Mayor's jaw is on the floor too, and I'm pretty sure he's waiting for me to yell 'just kidding' and run back to my spot. But I don't, I stay with Prim. I see a flame in Effie's eyes, not of anger, but of excitement. My volunteering will bring her all the attention she's obviously desperate for.

"Is it even allowed? This has never happened before." The Mayor says nervously. He's obviously worried that he'll be executed if he allows me to volunteer for my sister without the Confederation's consent.

"Sure it is!" Effie beams. "This lass is excited for her chance to be in the Games so why deny her request! Wouldn't want your sister stealing all of the glory would you?" Effie winks at me playfully and I just stare at her emotionlessly.

"Katniss no!" My sister clings onto me, tears streaming from her eyes. "You can't do it, I won't let you!"

"Prim, let go!"

I try to pry her off of me as I keep my tears at bay. Other tributes will be watching this and I don't want to be labeled as a weak opponent. I won't give them the satisfaction. I feel her weight off of me and I turn to see Gale carrying her away with two peacekeepers flanking their sides.

Effie ushers me onto the stage and I keep my emotionless mask on, in fact from what I see on the screens set up around the square, my expression almost looks bored. Good. Effie asks me my name.

"Katniss Everdeen." I tell her before zoning out for her speech about how girls are equally as capable at winning these Games as boys are. Yeah right, half of the boy tributes could break me like a twig.

"Can we get a round of applause for miss Everdeen?" Effie chirps.

It's customary for no one to clap. It's the only way we can show a small disapproval with the Hunger Games without getting shot. But this time the crowd does something completely unexpected. Almost completely in sync, the crowd raises three fingers to their lips and then out in front towards where I stand frozen. It's an old symbol we used to say goodbye to loved ones. In the crowd I see Prim huddled in my mother's arms, tears blotting her eyes, and my mother looks as if the whole world just came crashing down on her.

I'm escorted into town hall by a pack of peacekeepers, with Effie walking by my side with an extra bounce in her step. The tributes are allowed time to say goodbye to their loved ones, and for me, this goodbye will probably be my last.

I'm seated on a leather sofa with my legs propped up and a stoic expression on my face when my mother and sister enter. Prim has been crying, I can tell by the red tint in her eyes and the sniffle in her nose, but my mother looks utterly flabbergasted, as if she has no idea what to do with herself. First her husband dies, and now she loses a daughter to the Games. But I don't have it in me to pity her. Her situation is far less grave than my own.

"Katniss, maybe you can win," Prim stifles out. "You know how to hunt. Promise me you'll try."

"I promise, Prim." I tell her, but I won't give her any other hopes. I can't possibly win, there are tributes who've trained for this their entire lives.

Then I turn on my mother. "You can't zone out on her, again. She won't have me around this time, and it's up to _you_ to take care of her. You're her mother."

"I was sick, it wasn't my faul-"

"Well you have your medicine now, so take it and watch over Prim. Gale will bring you meat, but give him something as a thank you like milk or cheese from Prim's goat or herbs. And I don't care what you see on TV, you have to keep going. For Prim."

I detect that my tone with her was a bit harsh so I pull her into a tight hug. A peacekeeper enters to tell us that their time is up. I give Prim one last hug, and as they're ushered out of the room, I repeatedly tell them that I love them. Because this could be the last time I ever see them again.

Gale is my next visitor. I said that we've never had a romantic history, but I don't hesitate to go into his outstretched arms when he enters. We stand there hugging for a moment before he grabs onto my shoulders and talks to me with the utmost severity.

"The moment you get in there, go for a bow. You know how to shoot." He tells me.

"They don't always have a bo-"

"Then make one." He insists. Most years the arena has some sort of wood for fires, like trees. Without it, the Games would resolve quickly because the tributes would freeze to death and the sadistic bastards who actually enjoy watching the Games would be disappointed. Boo hoo. "You know how to hunt."

"Yeah, animals. Not people." I say.

"It's no different, Katniss." And maybe he's right. If I can forget that my fellow tributes are people, I could easily kill them. But do I really want to do that?

"There are twenty-four of us, Gale, and only one comes out." I say, trying to keep my voice even.

"Yeah, and it's going to be you." He says with confidence, even though the odds of that happening are slim to none. A peacekeeper comes in and Gale asks for more time so they escort him out. Right before the door closes he yells, "Katniss, remember I-"

But the door slams and I never hear want he wanted me to remember.

When the next person enters, I'm surprised to come eye to eye with Madge Undersee. She's wearing the same dress as earlier, it really is pretty. She struts up to me swiftly and urgently.

"You're allowed to wear a token in the arena, to remind you of your district." She states. "Will you wear this for me?"

I hold out my hand and she drops a golden pin in my outstretched palm. A closer look shows me it's a Mockingjay pin. I nod in agreement. And before I know what's happening, she gives me a kiss on the cheek and hurries out of the room. Maybe she was my friend all along.

Even though we exit town hall through the back door, we're still swarmed by paparazzi and camera men, all set on getting some footage of this year's female tribute. This is one of those times when I'm glad I can easily hide my emotions behind a stoic mask.

Effie and I board a Jet plane behind the building that will take us to California for the boy's reaping this evening. To say that I'm nervous for the ride there is an understatement. I've never flown before in my life. Even if we could afford it, there's nowhere that we need to go outside of the Seam.

The flight takes off due west, towards California. And I begin to nervously pick at my nails, awaiting the moment when I'll meet my fellow U.S tribute.

* * *

**Cato will be in the next chapter. Review if you have any suggestions or comments. Please no flaming because this is my first story. Thank ya! **


	2. Chapter 2

**In a lot of AU stories, the characters fall for each other too soon and i don't want that. I want to have a developed story, so don't expect Katniss and Cato to fall madly in love at first sight.**

**I still don't own the Hunger Games. **

Chapter 2:

I was never the social butterfly back in Georgia, especially after my father passed away. Gale was one of the exceptions of course, but he understood why I was so reserved unlike the others at school. We both had terrible losses and have to support our families. I'd much rather hunt for meals then gossip about cute boys in my class.

So my lack of social skills is what leads to the most awkward plan ride I can ever imagine.

Effie Trinket is seated across from me in a velvet recliner chair, blabbering about things I couldn't care less about. Like fashion and manners. She really chose the wrong tribute to gossip to, because the sickness I feel from being a mile up in the air added with the tension from my inevitable death on television has set me on edge. I'm this close to throwing something big and durable at her bubbly head.

"So Katniss, I couldn't help but notice the handsome boy who escorted your sister away at the reaping." Effie says. I cringe at the word 'escort'. More like dragged her away. "Do you know that young lad?"

"Yes." I say monotonously, hoping that my lack of enthusiasm will hinder this conversation of ours.

"Is he a boyfriend?" She asks, one eyebrow lifted and her colorful lips pulled up in a side-smirk.

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" She asks, obviously unfazed by my cold tone.

"No."

"Are there any cute boys in town that you have an eye one? You can tell me, we're both girls here." She winks and I scowl in return.

I'm about to make a snide comment about me doubting that she's actually a female, but I remember my mother once telling me to respect our elders. Then again, my mother has proven to be not so wise in the past years.

"No." She opens her mouth to ask me another question but I cut her off before she can do so. "I think I'm going to take a nap."

Her lips pucker into a thin line, and I can only assume that she's offended by my unsatisfactory manners. "Okay Katniss, we'll arrive in Sacramento in three and a half hours or so."

Sleep will not come easily and that has nothing to do with the loud jet turbines or the chatter from Effie or any other distracting noises. My mind is too alert at the moment, and I can't seem to empty my mind of all that has happened this evening. I have too many questions to consider. Will my mother space out again and leave poor Prim with the weight of the world on her delicate shoulders? What about Gale, will he stick to the pack we made years back and protect my family when I'm not around? And me, what chances do I have of surviving the Hunger Games?

Eventually I slip out of consciousness and fall asleep.

Four hours later and we're descending into the Sacramento area, right on time for the Reaping. It begins at 5 o'clock sharp, allowing the lucky families whose children aren't chosen to have a celebratory dinner afterwards. All the while, one family will shut their curtains tight and mourn the loss of their child to the sadistic Games.

The Jet is parked right behind city hall, same as in Atlanta, so there's no commute to the Reaping. It doesn't matter to me though. I'm not allowed to attend the boy's Reaping, since I've already had my moment in the spotlight. Effie on the other hand is primping in front of a mirror, getting camera ready. I wonder if she actually enjoys this, escorting innocent children to their unavoidable doom. Her nonchalant attitude infers that she's unfazed by the cruelty at hand, but I just don't see how somebody can feel so indifferent towards this horrific event.

"Well Katniss, I'll return shortly with your fellow tribute." She tells me. "Feel free to watch it as it happens on the screen."

There's a flat screen T.V in the compartment, that's probably more expensive than my house, to watch the Reaping live. All of them are filmed live since each country has their own day dedicated to their individual Reaping. 12 countries means nearly 2 weeks of Reapings. The United States is last.

I murmur an 'okay' and she leaves me alone with my thoughts, at long last.

The male tribute Reaping begins the same way as the female's did, with the Mayor reading off a speech to the silent crowd, but this time the herd of possible tributes range from scrawny twelve year olds to buff eighteen year old boys. And in a few minutes, one of the boys on that spectrum will be chosen to sit beside me and endure the Games alongside me. Worst of all, if I want to win and stay alive, that boy has to die.

On the screen, Effie approaches the glass ball containing the slips of names, and a pin could be heard dropping amongst the silent onlookers. She digs her pale fingers into the colossal pile of slips and pulls out a slip of paper with a boy's name written neatly on it. Each step she takes in her five inch heels echoes through the square. She stands in front of the microphone and reads out the boy's name.

"Cato Ashworth."

From the moment his name is called, I can tell that this boy is nothing like me. For instance, when I took Prim's place, the square went silent save for some muttering in the crowd. Because I was a non-entity in my county. I served for my family and that was it. When this boy's name is called, cries of protest emit from the crowd, and I can tell that he is – or was- someone of importance from here.

Then I spot him walking – no, sauntering – down the aisle towards the stage, and let me just say, it would be hard to miss him.

The brutish boy, with dark blonde, spiky hair and more(and bigger) muscles than I thought existed in the human anatomy, practically struts down the aisle towards his possible death. I'm not saying that I didn't have confidence when I stood up for my sister, but this boy almost looks as if he thinks he's prepared for this. And by his size, he probably is. If I were to guess, I would say he could snap me in half with one hand.

Once he's on the stage and standing next to Effie, I'm filled with dread. He's nearly two feet taller than her and I'm about the same height as her. The odds are more directed in his favor than in mine in this competition. Sure, I can shoot an arrow with great precision and accuracy, but he won't even need a weapon when it comes to the arena. He could kill anyone with his bare hands if he needed to, and his victim could easily be me. I'll have to keep my eye on the brute from the United States.

The screen goes black and the Reaping is officially over. The tributes have been chosen. The monstrous boy from California and I are going to be the representatives in this year's Hunger Games on behalf of the United States of America.

I hear voices outside the plane, a shrill one that obviously belongs to Effie and a deep, masculine voice that must belong to the male tribute. I'm not completely foreign to the voice of a guy, but I'm accustomed to Gale's southern accent. From what I can hear, this boy sounds like he has a tough-guy dialect. Great, that's just what I need. Some brutish punk who probably isn't disgusted by the thought of killing someone.

The door unlatches and Effie escorts the brute inside of our compartment. God, he's even bigger in person. One hundred percent tanned muscle and he wears this cocky smirk as if he just won a fight or something.

Our eyes interlock for a moment; the piercing icy blue of his colliding with the dull gray of mine. For a moment, his smirk falters when he sees me, which is insane because it's not like I'm anything to be afraid of. He could kill me in seconds. But then his eyes flicker away from me and he saunters over to the sofa where he sprawls across the furniture as if he's lounging lazily back at home.

I inadvertently roll my eyes at his casual behavior and he notices. His eyes narrow at me in anger, and then he looks anywhere but at me.

Internally, I slap myself for pissing off the brutish tribute. I really don't need to make any enemies before the arena, especially one of his size and stature. The best thing I can do is have nothing to do with him before the arena. I wouldn't want to make myself a target before the Games even begin.

The Jet plane, that is used each year for the United States tributes, is accommodated with everything we need to live at large. There's a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, two bedrooms for Cato and I, and a private bathroom in each room. There's even a bar where Effie tells us our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, must be hiding with his beloved booze.

I'm lying on my bed in satin, green pants and a tank-top, that I retrieved from my fully equipped closet, admiring the soft cotton bed linens when Effie knocks on my door. She tells me it's time for dinner, and I groan in annoyance. After being surrounded by camera men, paparazzi, peacekeepers, and Effie, I request some alone time to get my thoughts straight.

When I reach the dining area, Cato and Effie are already seated at a table set for four. I guess our inebriated mentor will not be joining us this evening.

I sit across from Cato and to the left of Effie, desperately hoping that this will be a silent meal. It's not like Effie has any good advice for the arena to supply. All she wants to talk about is gossip of the rich people. Something that I wouldn't understand at all.

The feast before me is beyond what I could ever imagine. Don't get me wrong, the meals I brought home from hunting were as fresh as they can get, but that's squat compared to this extravagant meal prepared for us. There are all types of beef and chicken, as well as soups and salads, and even deserts and an assortment of drinks. I fill up my plate and begin feasting on this elegant meal. If I'm going to die, might as well enjoy the luxuries given to me.

"Wow, you eat like you'll never see food again." Cato comments with a raised eyebrow and his signature smirk. Despite his brutish demeanor, he eats with manners that label him as an upper class citizen. He probably thinks I'm trash.

"I'm not very accustomed to large meals where I come from." I say coldly. I could've said much worse.

"I can tell," He chuckles as he eyes me up and down. I feel my face grow hot. It takes all I have not to lash out on him right here. I have to remind myself that he's a muscular boy, probably eighteen years old, and I'm a skinny sixteen year old girl. I mean, I have a toned body from hunting, but it's nothing compared to him.

The rest of the meal goes by in mostly silence. I keep to myself, not wanting to initiate a fight with Cato and he helps himself to more food so he's doesn't start any conversations. And that systems works out well until Effie brings up something about the Games.

"So, do either of you have any special talents that could help you advance in the games?" She asks. The fire of determination in her eyes has returned. She sees us as two possible tributes to bring her fame.

"I can-" Cato cuts me off before I can tell her about the bow and arrow.

"I'm the captain of the fencing team at my school, so I know a bit about wielding a sword." He boasts proudly to Effie. "Also, I'm the captain of the football team so I've got good endurance and I can run fast."

He turns to me with a smirk on his face and I avert my eyes to Effie to break the eye contact. He's like one of those wild dogs I saw in the woods. They're predators sniffing out their prey. And Cato's taunting me, looking for a weakness I suppose.

"What about you Katniss?" Effie asks. She doesn't even bother to hide the excitement she feels from Cato's answer. I can't blame her though. He's the ideal tribute.

"Yeah, Katniss. What can _you_ do?" I feel a twist in my stomach when Cato says my name. Do I really want him to know the one advantage I have in these Games, when he could be plotting my death as we speak?

"I don't have any." I lie. "I mean, I can probably climb trees because of my size, but that's about it."

There's obvious disappointment on Effie's face, which angers me to the point where I almost want to rub it in her face that I can hunt. It's not like she has to fight in these Games. But then there's Cato. I don't want him to know my strengths or weaknesses. I turn to face him, awaiting his triumphant smirk, but he's glaring at me. As if he knows that I just lied to their faces. But how could he know?

I have to look away because his menacing glare is obviously meant to intimidate me to the point where I'll give up and tell him my secret. But I can't do that if I want to survive. For the rest of dinner he stares at me, never looking away, and I feel extremely uncomfortable under his gaze. I even resort to making small talk with Effie to distract myself.

But Cato gets fed up during dinner and speaks up right in the middle of one of Effie's raves about her new wig.

"So Katniss," He sneers. "You've got some decent muscles on your arms, what sport do you play?" He's grinning wide.

I expected Effie to be annoyed by his interruption, but of course, she's much more interested in the prospect of me having some sort of talent. I glare at Cato, knowing that there's no way out of this. But right on time, Haymitch stumbles into the room in a drunken state, and Effie flares up in anger.

"Oh Haymtich!" She spits out the name like it's acid. "You're right on time!" She says sarcastically, giving him the iciest look I've ever witnessed in person.

Our drunken mentor mumbles a few words before vomiting on the carpet and then fainting into his own bile. I have to bite my lip and look away to keep myself from getting sick. I've always been a bit squeamish. But Cato laughs out loud, earning him an icy glare from Effie.

"Laugh all you want," She says. "But your mentor is your lifeline in these Games."

It's the only good advice Effie has given us and it shuts Cato up right away. She hastily exits the room, most likely heading back to her own sleeping quarters, leaving me alone with Cato and our passed out mentor.

He and I make eye contact, and for the first time, we see each other as fellow tributes instead of two completely different teenagers who just met. Cato motions to Haymitch with his head and I nod in agreement. Look at us communicating without words.

I take Haymitch by one arm and Cato gets him by the other. We drag him to the closest bathroom, which happens to be mine, and clean him up in the sink. I fully planned on dragging him back to his own sleeping quarters, but he woke up before we could do so. Cato and I stormed out of the bathroom and left him in there to continue vomiting in the toilet. My toilet.

"Oh, crap." I mutter below my breath. Of course I don't have a bathroom to clean up in before bed all because of my stupid mentor.

"It's okay," Cato says. "Come use my bathroom to wash up tonight."

A seemingly innocent comment goes awry when he sends me a devilish smirk and leaves the room, leaving me with my mouth open in shock, wondering what he's insinuating.

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**Review if you have any comments or suggestions or you just feel like reviewing.**


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter is short, sorry, but the next one is the tribute parade so it should be longer!**

**Thanks to the people who review, your comments make my night! :)**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.**

Chapter 3:

My fingers nervously play with my bed linens as I watch past Hunger Games on the television in my room. I feel sick to my stomach, and it has nothing to do with the vomiting noises that I can hear Haymitch making from my personal bathroom. Just watching past Games reminds me of what I'll be facing in a week.

The 73rd Hunger Games, the one I'm currently watching, was hosted by China. The interviews and training take place in Beijing, the country's capital, but the actual Games occur in some unknown destination. Don't get any misconceptions that there's a home team advantage involved in the Hunger Games. The arena for each Games reflects the hosting country in no way. In fact, the arena last year was a wasteland and the tributes accosted each other with rubble they found scattered throughout the field.

My eyelids feel heavy and I can feel the fatigue of the day creeping up on me. No wonder, it's nearly midnight. We should be arriving in London in about seven hours, so it's imperative that I get some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a big day, so I'll need all the energy I can get.

I scavenge through my closet for pajamas to sleep in. Considering my meeting with Cato this evening, I intentionally choose a pair of long pants and a t-shirt, instead of the shorts and bra I'd normally wear to bed. I'll probably be hot in this outfit, but at least I'm covered.

By midnight, Haymitch is no longer hurling from what I can hear, but it's easy to say that my bathroom is a disastrous mess by now. I almost feel bad for the attendants who have to clean that up, but they don't have to worry about their imminent death so it's difficult to pity them.

When I leave my bedroom, the lights inside the jet are off for the night, so I blindly navigate my way to the end of the hall where my fellow tribute's room is situated. I knock several times, just in case he's in his bathroom and can't hear the door. I really hope he's not in the bathroom.

I hear a muffled "come in", so I push open the door and enter the brute's sleeping quarters.

The room is pitch-black, save for the light spilling out the bathroom door, which remains ajar, and illuminating Cato's King sized mattress. Of course, he's washing up in the bathroom at the exact time I show up. Our timing is uncanny.

I knock on the bathroom door, not wanting to enter without warning in case he's indecent.

"I said you can come in." He says.

"That's alright. I'll wait for you to finish up." I insist.

The door swings open and I'm immediately blinded by the foreign light. And after my eyes adjust to the brightness, I'm blinded by another sight. Cato. All of Cato. Because he's clad only in a small, thin pair of boxer-briefs that cling to his body, leaving nothing for the imagination. "Nonsense, there's room for both of us in here." He says with a smirk.

I've always considered myself a squeamish person, especially when it comes to nudity. When I was younger, my mother was one of the best healers in the Seam, for people who couldn't afford to regularly pay for a professional doctor. Whenever there was a an accident in the mine, men of all ages would be brought to my mother, stripped of their clothes, to be looked at by my mother. I'm not like my mother or Prim. They have a professional viewpoint and they can handle nude bodies. But I always had to leave the room.

I guess I would consider that a weakness of mine. And that's exactly what Cato is looking for. A weakness. Well the jokes on him. He probably assumes the obvious blush on my face is from teenage hormones, when it's actually from embarrassment. He's taunting me and I'm not going to give him the satisfaction.

He blocks the doorway with his massive, broad pecs and his muscular tanned arms. I try not to let my eyes linger down to his defined abs. Wouldn't want him getting the wrong idea.

"Do you see something you like?" He asks with this eyebrow raised and a smirk.

I scoff at that. "Actually, I was waiting for you to move so I can get past. You're blocking my path."

The smirk on his face dissolves and he loses his cocky charisma temporarily. By my request, he shifts to the right, allowing room to swiftly weave around him into the bathroom. I try to ignore the way my skin tingles when it momentarily rubs against the muscle on this arm.

I take to the sink to wash my face and brush my teeth for bed. Afterwards I braid my hair in a single strand down my back. Cato doesn't leave the entire time I'm here, and he makes no effort in trying to hide the fact that he's staring at me in the mirror. Once again, I feel slightly uncomfortable under his stare. I would be a liar if I said that this boy doesn't intimidate me.

I need to wash my hands before leaving, but I'm having trouble with the faucet for some reason. Of course, I make a fool out of myself when a fellow contender in the Hunger Games is watching me so intently. I'm taken back when he chuckles and approaches me. I'm about to deny his offer for assistance, but before I can do so, he's standing behind me with his large arms wrapped around my body, reaching for the faucet.

Every inch of his body is pressed up against my own as he fiddles around with the knobs on the sink with his large hands, obviously taking his time. The close contact causes my face to redden, and with the mirror right in front of us, Cato doesn't miss it. He grins victoriously at my discomfort. "Here let me try it," He practically purrs in my ear, causing a shiver to spread down my spine.

When the sink starts working once more, he backs away and stands in the doorway, scrutinizing my every move from where he blocks my only escape route. It's difficult to wash my hands with them shaking so much from that awkward encounter, but I eventually do and after I'm done, I intend on heading back to my room.

Unfortunately, I have two left feet when I'm around the brute, so I trip and fall before I can even reach the doorway.

The odds truly are not in my favor tonight, and I end up slamming into Cato, throwing all of my weight onto him. My face is squished against his abdomens and my arms are wrapped around his waist to keep myself from falling to the ground. There's no mirror on Cato's pelvis, but I can imagine I'm bright scarlet at the moment.

Cato chuckles, which infuriates me beyond words, and lifts me up in his strong arms, not letting go even when I'm on my feet. "Wow Katniss, you're sure nervous around me. I can feel your heart beating at twice its normal rate. Does that have anything to do with yours truly?"

I'm livid. I actually spit my next words at him. "No! Flatter yourself! It has to do with the fact that I almost face planted on the tile floor. What kind of girl do you take me for?"

"I'm still trying to figure you out." He says with an inquisitive look. What is that supposed to mean? Knowing Cato, it's probably an insult disguised as an innocent comment.

I try wriggling out of his arms, but that's easier said than done. He laughs at my futile attempts and eventually lets me go. I storm out of his room angrily. "Well figure it out on your own time. I have better things to do." I spit at him before leaving.

His laughter rings in my ears as I hurry back to my own room and slam my door shut. Why does he affect me so much? Why do I let everything he does get to me? He's obviously playing with my head, psyching out the competition before the Games begin. But I can't let him get to me, not if I want to fulfill my promise to Prim and return home alive. I'm going to have to set Cato straight. And then, I'm going to have to have as little to do with the brute from the United States as possible.

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**Again, sorry for the short chapter, but the next one will be longer! Review if you have comments, suggestions, or you just want to make me happy. :) Please no flaming because this is my first story.**


	4. Author's notePlease read

**Author's note:**

**I know how these little notes are incredibly annoying because you think the author uploaded a new chapter but they didn't because i'm an obsessed Fanfiction reader too.**

**But i had to make this note because it's been a whole month since i updated and i didn't want people to think that i gave up on the story. I'm currently working on the fourth chapter, but i've had school work and some minor writer's block.**

**I'm back on track now and writing so expect an update sometime soon.**

**Also, thank you so much for those of you who review for this story. Your reviews make me happy beyond words and urge me to write more. And some of you have been asking if i'm taking tribute submissions. I haven't decided what i'm going to do with the tribute characters just yet, this is a major AU so i want to avoid being corny. But PM me any tribute suggestions you may have and i'll definitely take them under consideration.**

**Again, thanks to those who follow or favorite this story and please review if you haven't so i know that there are people reading this story.**

**Thanks a ton!**

**Chandler.**


	5. Chapter 4

**I know that i said this chapter would be long, but it's taking me forever to write the tribute parade stuff so i wanted to give you all a little something to make up for my absence.**

**I still don't own the Hunger Games or any of its characters.**

Chapter 4:

When I wake up, I extend my arm to the other side of the bed in search for the warmth of Prim's body, only to find cold bed sheets. But these bed linens are much softer and smoother than the ones Prim and I bought from the flea market off the highway. Yes, we had to resort to buying our linens from a cheap stand on the side of the road. I wonder how mother managed to afford these.

Three consecutive raps on my bedroom door knock me out of my stupor and I hear a shrill voice calling "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

Effie.

All of the events from yesterday flood my mind, wreaking havoc on the ounce of peace my mind was at for the moment. Prim's name being called, me volunteering for her, the plane ride to California, Cato being chosen, and my awkward encounter with him in the bathroom all flash before my eyes like a horrible cinema that I'd rather not waste two hours of my life watching.

My bubbly escort resumes her incessant knocking on my door, waiting for an indication that I'm awake, and I reluctantly deliver in the form of a loud groan.

"Why don't we let the beast stay in her cave a little longer this morning." A deep voice muses from outside my door. Even after a day, I can recognize that voice anywhere. Cato.

Completely opposed to giving him any satisfaction, I rise quickly from bed and hurry out the door, knocking them both out of the way. The extra bounce in my step this morning seems to throw them both off. But I've always been talented in sustaining my poker face, and in this competition, showing your emotions, doubts, and feelings to others is an invitation to manipulation and certain death.

We spend the majority of breakfast in silence, if you don't count Effie's ceaseless bantering about the latest trends and how citizens in our country are so void of fashion taste. I manage to block out most of what she says, distracting myself by indulging in the lavish food provided for the tributes, but what I can't seem to ignore is the fact that Cato won't stop staring at me.

His words from last night resonate in my thoughts, _I'm still trying to figure you out_, he had said to me. Well, what in the world is that supposed to mean? I guess I know the answer to that. He wants to know me better, or know my skills better, so he knows how to take me out in the arena.

That boy is trouble with a capital 't'.

* * *

The sun has risen when we arrive at our allotted destination, London. The heart of England. I'm not very educated on the subject of time differences in different countries, since it doesn't pertain to the subject of coal mining, but I'm sure that it's still night back home.

Home. The thought of it makes my stomach do a backflip, my breakfast threatening to make a comeback. I wonder what my family is doing at the moment. Are they sleeping soundly, or is their slumber deterred by my predicament? The latter is more logical, but every fiber of my being hopes they can get through these next few weeks of hell in one piece.

Especially my emotionally unstable mother.

I dress in a forest green pant-suit, adjusting the golden mockingjay pin Madge gave me on the front. Observing myself in the mirror, I braid my hair into a single strand down the back, the way my mother used to do it. It's hard to believe it was only yesterday that I was braiding my hair for the Reaping. Feels like forever ago.

"Attention tributes," a monotone voice reverberates through the jet speakers. "We'll be touching down in the metropolitan London area momentarily. Please be seated in the main hanger immediately."

Anxiety fills me up to the brim as I make my way towards my seat near the front of the jet. I can't tell what I'm dreading more; a reunion with Haymitch, Effie, and my former tribute, or the time that I'll step foot off of this jet and be exposed to the world yet again.

Cato is situated and fiddling with his thumbs when I arrive and, as I sit down in the chair beside him, he doesn't acknowledge my presence. I'm grateful for that. His eyebrows are furrowed on his tanned face, either in confusion or anger- I can't tell. But he seems to be staring intently at his twirling thumbs while his leg inadvertently taps repeatedly onto the chrome floors.

Could it be? Could this brute – this seemingly dimwitted and arrogant brute be nervous? I know that I am, but the only side of Cato I've seen is his one of superiority, you know, where he assumes he's above everyone else.

But not anymore. He and I are in the same boat now.

* * *

Blinding light floods into the cabin as the opening hatch is pulled open and a roar of applause rumbles through the opening. I'm not even outside yet and I'm already covering my eyes and attempting to block out the ruckus around me. I've always been a nobody, and that's the way I like it. I never yearned for the spotlight back in grade school and I was completely content existing in my own little world.

Effie is in her prime, savoring all of the attention she's receiving for accomplishing nearly nothing. This is truly her fifteen minutes of fame because, with the U.S tributes normally being killed off in the bloodbath, she's only relevant to the Games near the beginning. Nevertheless, she waves to the crowd like she's some monarch whereas Haymitch scrambles towards the Limo in a drunken haze. It's not even noon yet and he's already inebriated…

As I make to leave the jet, most likely to follow Haymitch's example and hurry through the crowd to the limo where I'll have some privacy, I feel a hand nudge me in the back. The force is enough to push me off balance from the highest step leading down the stairs from the plane entrance. But before I can topple down the stairs and face plant in front of hundreds of buffoons dressed up in outlandish fashion and dozens of camera men broadcasting me live to the world, a strong pair of arms wraps around my torso, lifting me off my feet.

Once again, I find myself in my fellow tribute's arms. But this time, in front of the entire world.

If you've seen a tomato before, then you have a pretty good idea as to how my face looks right now. But Cato's soft chuckles in my ears morph my embarrassment into a fiery rage. This must be a set up of his. To make me look like a clumsy ditz so I won't take any of his sponsors.

I begin to struggle from his grasp, hoping that the crowd is awe struck about something other than our little interaction. But that's not true. Tributes from the same country never show platonic relations with one and other, so Cato and I will definitely be recorded in the text books as the dumbest tributes of all time.

Cato carries me down the steps bridal style, and if my life weren't on the line, I'd forget the rules and punch him in the face right here in front of everyone. But I can't risk reducing my chances of winning even further. So I smile shyly the whole way and climb out of his arms the moment we reach ground level.

But he doesn't let go of my arm, and I'm not stupid enough to make a scene in front of a cheering crowd. But honestly, what the _hell _is he playing at?

"Could you be a little less hostile for five seconds, Katniss." Cato sneers at me through gritted teeth. But he covers it up with a flashy smile that, for some reason, makes my heart beat twice as fast.

"Could you keep your hands off of me!" I say with an equally as believable smile so our audience doesn't realize we're arguing.

He throws his head back, laughing hysterically at a joke I never told, and I see the onlookers getting more and more interested. What is Cato trying to do? Present us as a team? That's ridiculous, with his strength he could be a part of one of those alliances where the tributes prepare beforehand for the Games. Why would he display any ties with me to the world?

"I'm going to the limo, now," I say with a sweet smile. "Let go of me."

He returns the grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He lets go and I begin to head to the limo, but before that happens Cato makes a more than friendly gesture in front of the crowd. In front of the cameras. In front of the world.

I'm sure he didn't mean to hit my butt. No, he was probably aiming for much higher, probably to pat me on the back. But no matter how pure his attentions might've been, Cato ends up tapping my rear-end on international television. It was probably an accident.

But the smirk on his face says otherwise.

I'm going to kill him.

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**Thanks for reading! Review if you have comments, suggestions, or want to make me happy :)**


	6. Chapter 5

**Hello.  
I'm back.**

**I wrote this chapter in one night, and it's currently three in the morning so don't kill me if there's spelling errors. Also, i was having a bit of trouble converting the story to my AU version, so if you have any questions or concerns, just comment!**

**Again, i dont own the Hunger Games, or any of its characters. All rights to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

I've never felt so exposed in my entire life.

Stripped of all my clothes, and ridden of multiple layers of grime and hair that my prep team scrubbed off in the three hours I've been in the Remake center, I stand nude in the center of this small chamber, awaiting the arrival of my stylist. I'm anxious to see what nutjob is assigned to our country this year.

The United States, with its higher than most obesity rates, is viewed as an unhealthy country full of pricks. So the only stylists who'll agree to dress our tributes are psychopaths who dress the children up in giant cheeseburger costumes. I don't know what my country's main industry is, but I'm positive that it isn't fast food.

I suppose it's more of a joke to the world. To expose the tributes who won't last three days in the arena. We're just the comic relief before the real fun begins.

The door slides open and a slim man walks in. At first, I'm confused. Who is he? He can't be my stylist, can he? He looks so different than the others, with their outlandish and flamboyant style and artificial modifications to their faces. The man, who must be my stylist, wears only a simple black shirt and pants. His brown hair is cut short. The only artificial look to his face is a light, metallic gold eye-liner that brings out the hints of gold in his eyes.

"Hello, Katniss. I'm your stylist, Cinna." He says softly. His voice lacking the normal capitol dialect.

"Hello."

"Just one moment." He says, circling my exposed form like a vulture encircling its prey. His eyes take in every inch of my body, and the temptation arises to cover myself from his eyes. I've never been seen in this state by anyone but my family.

"Are you new to the Games?" I ask, trying to mask my discomfort. Normally the same stylists return each year, but it's very common for our country's stylist to quit. Or get institutionalized.

"Yes, this is my first year."

"And you got stuck with the U.S." I mutter. No other stylist is willing to demote to us. No, the regulars would rather cater to the winners, all the European states that will more likely than not be the winners of the Games ever year.

"I asked for the United States," He says simply. That could just be him protecting his pride, though. Why would he want to stand behind the definite losers? I push that thought from my head. I know what loosing means in these Games. "Why don't you put on your robe and we can a little talk."

I throw on the silk robe and follow him into a miniature sitting room with a nice view of Big Ben. There are plush arm-chairs to sit in. He gestures to a meal prepared on the table between us, but I turn it down. My nerves for tonight's opening ceremony are making my appetite almost non-existent.

"My partner Portia, the stylist for your fellow tribute, and I were contemplating complimentary outfits for Cato and you." Great. We can be salt and pepper, or Ketchup and Mustard. Or just simply two peas in a pod. "However, with the instability of the country's economy, there's not one industry that would correctly identify you two. So, we were thinking of a more… historical take."

He smirks slightly. That can't be good.

* * *

We look absolutely foolish.

Well, I can only speak for myself. Cato looks somewhat good, I guess, from an objective stand-point. He's dressed in a replica uniform from the Revolutionary war, a war ages ago, long before the Hunger Games existed, when the United States rebelled from England. With his rather large muscles, the uniform fits him very nicely. All of the capitol girls will swoon over him, pray that he wins so they can lay their artificial nails all over his tanned skin.

And then there's me.

I had hopes for Cinna. I thought he was on my side, and that he'd present me to the world as a strong competitor in these Games. I thought he wouldn't present me as some weak little girl. But I was wrong. I'm standing in this little chariot of ours, wearing a traditional colonial woman's dress, feeling more embarrassed than I ever have. There's even a pathetic little bonnet to fit on my head, hiding my braid.

"You'll see, the sponsors will love it." Cinna had said. I'd rather the Games start right now, right here in the stable beneath the remake center, so I wouldn't have to face the world dressed like this.

I look like a weak little girl, and it doesn't help that I'm standing next to big, buff Cato. Poor starving girl dressed like a Pilgrim, or large tanned brute with an award winning smile? It's not hard to pick who'll get more sponsors. And that's if people pay attention to us at all.

Too soon the chariots begin to roll out onto the main street. The parade route is from the Remake Center to the training tower, both of which were constructed the first time the Hunger Games were here hosted by London. I want to say it was the sixteenth Games, but I don't know for sure. I wasn't around then.

We're the last chariot in the line. Sort of the opposite of 'save the best for last.' Every year our tributes go unnoticed. If it weren't for the speech at the end of the parade, people would probably turn off their television sets after China. Why take in the faces of the tributes that will most likely get hacked off in the bloodbath?

It's almost our turn, just one chariot left in front of us. I can feel the nerves begin to boil in my stomach. And I'm glad I passed up Cinna's offer for food earlier. Sponsors are one of the most important aspects of these games. They're lifelines for tributes. And although the Hunger Games is no beauty pageant, the more attractive tributes get more sponsors every year.

Let's just hope they have a thing for Amish attire.

Cinna is standing right in front of us now. We're the next chariot and I can barely hear him over the roar of the crowd outside. It's not nightfall yet, but it's starting to get gray outside. No matter, the London streets must be packed on each side with sponsors and other sadistic bastards who enjoy the Games.

"Hold hands!" He calls over the music from the streets.

"What? Why!" I yell back, agitated. Cato and I may be from the same country, but we are in no way teammates in this. And why would we even attempt that angle. Only one can win.

"Oh buck up," Cato says, annoyance in his voice. "I bet your hands are clammier than mine anyways."

My face is probably reddening under the thin make-up Cinna applied. From anger or embarrassment, I don't know. But I don't have time to analyze it because our horses are lurching forwards and we're about to enter the city streets. Cinna is yelling to me, but I can already feel the light from outside flashing onto my plain costume.

"Whatever happens, Katniss" He calls out. "Keep smiling and waving. No matter what happens."

He says that as if he thinks something bad will happen…

Cinna's face is replaced with the spectators on either side of the road. The sponsors are perched in constructed box seats on the wide avenue. Down the street, passed the eleven other chariots who are gathering much more attention that us, I see the Training Tower and the balcony where the Head of Foreign Affairs department (which only consists of the Hunger Games nowadays) Snow, is perched watching the whole parade. All I have to do is smile and pretend that this is all okay until I reach that destination.

I timidly lift my arm and wave to the crowd, who mostly neglect me. Cato is stealing the eyes of many women in the audience, but even the samurais a few chariots ahead are getting more attention than us. That's another thing about the Games. They don't portray the correct culture of countries, only the stereotypical versions conjured up in the media. Because that's all the Hunger Games is to these people. A media event for entertainment.

The only attention I'm getting is skeptical glares from onlookers, and we've only just entered the city street. While smiling pitifully and waving half-heartedly, I curse Cinna in my head. I'm an embarrassment. Prim. Mom. Gale. What are they thinking of this pathetic display? I'd rather be dressed up as a cheeseburger.

But then it happens.

I swear, if I wasn't already on death's bed, I would scream. I would jump. I would try and stomp out the trickling flames that are eating at the bottom of my horrendous dress. Is this the trick up Cinna's sleeve? To light me on fire and burn me like a roasted chicken in front of the sponsors? But his words resonate in my head. _Keep smiling and waving_. And I do exactly that, even though it comes across as more of a grimace, and the tributes in the first chariots could probably see my arm shaking with nerves.

I must've squeezed Cato's hand too tight, because he grunts through his award winning smile and shoots me a look. As soon as he spots the flames, his eyes widen. But I just keep smiling and waving, following Cinna's instructions in hopes that this isn't some plot to throw me under a rather large, double decker London bus. Cato smirks for some reason and gives my hand a squeeze. What's that about?

Looking down to where he was staring moments earlier, I see what he saw. Where the fire has burnt, the dress disappears completely, leaving only the skin-tight, black unitard Cinna had me put on before putting on my costume. I thought it was for comfort, but turns out it is the costume. The fire speeds up, eating up more of the dress, releasing thin smoke into the air around me.

All eyes are fixated on our chariot now. The crowd is silent; you could hear a pin drop. And then my whole wardrobe is on fire, filling the air with transparent smoke. It increases and spreads until, in one second, it all stops, and the cloud of smoke floats off into the breeze, revealing my new wardrobe. The crowd goes berserk.

My eyes float down to my clothes. It's the same suit as before, but it looks more shiny and sleek in the lights of the street. Across my chest, an American flag is painted out carefully with stencils. And then there's the bonnet on my head. It's still ablaze, burning without releasing any fumes, but looking like a crown of fire on my head.

My eyes drift over to Cato. He's holding one of those old muskets in the hand that I'm not gripping for my life. The tip of the gun is blazing like little firecrackers. _What a fiery debut , Cinna_ I think with a smirk. And for the first time tonight, I can smile to the crowd, and wave, and catch their bouquets of flowers, and listen without disgust as they chant "U-S-A" and my name and Cato's. Because if one thing happened tonight, it's Cinna giving me the slimmest chance in these Games. No one will forget my face or my name.

The chariots all come to a halt in front of the Training Tower, in a half moon facing the balcony where Snow is seated besides other members of his council. The crowd dies down, awaiting the words we hear every year the end of the parade. He welcomes us and rambles on about the importance and purpose of the Games. I don't pay much attention. I've heard it so many times, I could probably say the whole thing for him. My attention is drawn by the other tributes. Many are listening to Snow's address, probably pretending out of respect. But there are other tributes who are glaring daggers at Cato and I. But I can tell they're more directed at me. Cato isn't a guy who you would want to mess around with, that's easy to say based on his general demeanor. But I, a small girl who just stole away much of their attention, am an easy target.

As the chariots pull into the Training Tower and our prep teams swarm us, all I can think of are the glares I received tonight. I've probably just landed myself on many hit lists for these Games. But hopefully I gained at least one sponsor from it. As our team showers us in praise and Cato even manages to compliment me, only one thought goes through my head.

There better be a bow in the arena.

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**I don't know when the next chapter will be up, but the more comments, follows, and favorites, the more i want to continue. thanks for reading**


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